Using only one eye, Garth didn’t have time to completely size the man up before he spoke again.
“If it’s doctoring you need, head out,” the man said. “She’s busy.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” Garth said.
“Looks like you do to me.”
The man was of fair size, but it came from laziness rather than hard work, and the bottle he’d slid in his back pocket could be part of the cause. Garth dismounted. “I’m with the cattle drive.”
Taking a step back, the man folded his arms over his portly stomach. “I told her you’d be back to get your cow. No man, not one with a brain that is, trades a cow for eggs and beans. I sure enough told her that. And I told her I wouldn’t be taking the blame for her foolishness.” Waving a hand toward the barn doorway, he continued, “The cow and calf are in the barn. I can’t help you take them back. I’m busy.”
Even with just one eye, Garth saw plenty that had been ignored for a long time and wasn’t receiving any attention right now, either. “Doing what?”
The man rubbed his nose with the back of one hand. “Waiting. The wife’s pushing out a baby.”
Garth’s glance toward the house didn’t tell him anything other than it was in better shape than the barn. At least the door had both hinges and was tightly closed. “Your first?” he asked, turning his attention back to the man.
“Yes. If it lives that is.” Worry filled the man’s eyes as he glanced toward the house. “A couple ones before this didn’t.”
Compassion didn’t come easily, but in this instant, it seemed to. “Name’s Garth McCain,” he said, holding out a hand.
“Cecil Chaney.”
“I hope congratulations are soon in order, Mr. Chaney,” he said while shaking the man’s hand. Every child’s life was important, even this man’s. As Cecil’s eyes lightened up, Garth continued, “I’m not here to collect the cow or the calf. I wanted to say thank you for the trade. My cowboys were greatly pleased with the eggs and beans. We don’t get foodstuff along those lines too often while on the trail.”
Cecil’s face had completely brightened and his chest puffed. “I told her that.”
Satisfied there wasn’t trouble here, Garth reckoned he could head back to the herd, yet couldn’t stop from saying, “You seem to have told her a lot of things.”
“Have to. A girl that uppity needs some direction or she’ll go flying around like a moth, flapping her wings and getting nowhere.”
“Are you referring to your wife?”
“No, no, no. My wife, Emma Sue, she’s the one having the baby. I’m talking about Bridgette. That girl...”
Garth had started for his horse, but stopped as his stomach shot past his heart to land some place near his throat, where it dang near strangled him. After telling himself Chaney couldn’t be talking about his Bridgette several times, that his ears must be as swollen as his eye, he managed to catch enough breath to ask, “Bridgette who?”
“Don’t rightly know her last name. Rodgers I guess. She’s the doc’s adopted daughter. He farms her out to folks needing doctoring. Costs plenty for what ya get, but—”
“And she’s the one who traded for the cow and calf?” Garth asked, staring at the house. That couldn’t have been Bridgette; she’d have said something. Especially when he told her his name. Suddenly, the side of his face, where she’d slapped him, stung again, and irritation flared. Why the hell had she slapped him?
“Where you going?”
Garth had started for the house, and didn’t slow at the man’s question.
“You can’t go in there! My wife’s having a baby.”
That shout stopped him. At least it stopped his feet. With his insides gushing about like flood waters, Garth spun enough to see Cecil with his good eye. “Go get her.”
“My wife?”
“No,” he growled. “Bridgette.”
Cecil shook his head. “I can’t. She told me not to open that door.” Wiping his lips with one hand, he added, “I thought the baby would come before she got back. I don’t know nothing about birthing babies and I don’t want to learn.”
Garth spewed a mouthful of curse words as he swung back around to glare at the house. He didn’t want to learn about birthing babies either, but he did want to see Bridgette. Wanted to know why she’d smacked him and why she hadn’t told him who she was.
“She swindle you out of that calf and cow?” Cecil asked. “She’s like that. Has you doing things you don’t know you’re doing ’til it’s done. She’s had me doing more work around here since—”
With his head hurting and his guts twisting, Garth spun back to Cecil. “Give me that bottle.”
Clamping his mouth shut midsentence, Cecil glanced around before asking, “What bottle?”
“The one in your back pocket.” Garth took a step forward. “Now.”
Cecil shuffled his feet while dipping his head. “Oh, that one.” He pulled a bottle out. “I was just calming my nerves. You know how it is. Had to get me a couple extra bottles lately, with Bridgette living here and all. That woman could drive a man batty.”
Garth took the bottle and a long swig. It burned his throat, proving the whiskey—if that’s what it was supposed to be—was far from good, but that didn’t stop him from taking a second swallow. There was no reason, not a single one, for Bridgette not to have told him who she was.
“I told her there ain’t nothing wrong with being an orphan, ain’t no one to blame, but she didn’t take to my...”
Cecil kept talking. Garth wasn’t listening. There had been times in his life when he’d said those exact words. Events happened. Children were left without parents. Some, like him, were simply not wanted; others, like Bridgette knew of their beginning but no more; and others still, knew the exact moment they’d become an orphan. He’d spent a good amount of time being angry that he’d been an unwanted one and had spent a fair amount of time searching for a way to get back at life for that. At getting even. Until he’d decided to forget his past.
The injustice of life, the unfairness, the inequality still got to him at times. Being older helped. Knowing life was life, that you got out of it what you put into it. But this, Bridgette treating him like a stranger, hit him almost as hard as learning his mother had run off all those years ago.
Bridgette had been in the hallway when he’d arrived at the Children’s Home, on her hands and knees scrubbing the floors, and so skinny and scrawny the bucket of water had been bigger than her. He’d been mad, upset about being taken to the orphanage, and had been trying to get out of the constable’s hold. When the man had raised a hand to whack him, Bridgette had thrown her scrub brush toward them. It had missed the constable, and bounced off the wall. She’d run to retrieve it and prepared to throw the brush again.
He’d known plenty of girls on the streets, but he’d never seen or heard of a girl who’d laid into a constable the way Bridgette had. Even while being carried down the hall by one of the nursemaids, she’d continued to rant about the wrongness of hitting a child.
Later, when he’d seen her again, he’d pointed out that she was a child. She’d said exactly, who was better to know the wrongness of hitting a child than a child.
He hadn’t been able to argue that point, but they hadn’t formed a friendship until after he’d been brought to the Children’s Home the second time, when she’d snuck food to him when he’d been forced to complete chores during mealtimes as punishment for running away. After that, they’d spent plenty of time in each other’s company.
Until Kansas City, where he’d been distributed.
“You, uh, gonna give that back?”
Garth looked at the bottle and then Cecil before answering, “No.” He walked toward his horse.
“You heading back to your herd?”
Cecil was on his
heels, and Garth barely paused to grab the reins of his mount. “No.” He led the horse to the side of the barn, into the shade, and loosened its girth.
Chapter Six
Bridgette tucked the swaddled baby, a girl, beet red and with a healthy set of lungs, into the crook of Emma Sue’s arm. “She’s perfect, just like her momma.”
Emma Sue smiled as she kissed the top of the baby’s head. “She is perfect.” Lifting tear-filled eyes, Emma Sue shook her head. “Thank you, Bridgette. Thank you. Oh, I truly don’t know what else to say. I was so scared when the pains started right after you left. Cecil told me not to be, but I was.”
Grateful all had turned out well, Bridgette refused to focus on what could have been. What might have happened if she hadn’t returned when she had. Dr. Rodgers still hadn’t arrived, so Emma Sue would have been on her own. “Everything would have been fine,” she said, for Emma Sue’s sake. “You did wonderfully, and your daughter is beautiful. What will you name her?”
“I don’t know yet.” Emma Sue kissed the dark curls covering the baby’s head again. “I’ll have to ask Cecil. Can he come in now?”
“In a few minutes,” Bridgette answered. “Let me get everything in order first.”
“Of course. I’m just so excited for him to see her.”
“I’m sure you are.” Whether she liked him or not, Emma Sue loved Cecil, and for that reason alone Bridgette hurried about. Without any windows, the room was dark even with both lamps lit, but having cleaned up after a birth many times, she could complete the tasks with her eyes closed. The adverse effect of that meant she didn’t need to concentrate on what she was doing, which left her mind wide open to wander. And wander it did. Straight back to Garth McCain.
The audacity of that man! Traveling right past her for all these years and never once even attempting to see her. She had half a mind to ride back out to that herd and tell him exactly what she thought of him. That wasn’t possible, at least not until after Dr. Rodgers arrived and confirmed both Emma Sue and the baby were indeed fine. Considering he hadn’t arrived yet, she guessed he was seeing to another patient, therefore, it could be some time before he received the message and made his way out here.
Withholding a sigh, she neared the bed again. “Still doing fine?”
“Yes,” Emma Sue answered. “She’s sleeping.”
“She’s had an eventful day,” Bridgette replied, stroking the soft skin along the side of the baby’s cheek with a knuckle. “She really is beautiful.” This baby was. Though all were cute in their own right, some she’d seen could never have been called beautiful. “She looks just like you.”
“I see Cecil in her,” Emma Sue answered. “She has his eyes and nose.”
Not wanting to subject her mind to that consideration, Bridgette gathered one lamp. “I’ll carry everything out of the room and then go get him.”
“Thank you.”
After setting the lamp on the kitchen table, Bridgette went back into the bedroom and collected the basket containing the used linens and the bag of supplies Dr. Rodgers provided for her use each time she went to live with a family. She’d wash the instruments after Cecil visited with Emma Sue, and take care of the linens in the morning. The thought of Cecil had her taking a moment to return the pot of rabbit stew onto the stove. The egg noodles were good and dry, but that didn’t hurt them. She’d add them once the pot started to boil again.
Bridgette opened the door and was a bit surprised to find the cloaking dusk of evening. Husbands were usually sitting right outside the door, but that wasn’t the case with Cecil. She should have known. Pulling the door shut so as not to disturb Emma Sue, Bridgette shouted, “Cecil?”
A clatter had her turning toward the barn. Her insides hardened, and though she thought it impossible, her dislike of him increased. Weaving, and acting as if it took all his concentration to make his feet move, Cecil walked toward her.
Furious, she stomped forward. “Are you drunk?”
“I—I—I’s set—settling my n-nerves,” he said between hiccups.
If she had a frying pan handy, she would have smacked him with it.
“A boy?”
Bridgette took a deep breath and held it until calm enough to say, “You have a beautiful, healthy baby girl.”
“A girl?” Grinning, he turned toward the barn and waved an arm, but then frowned for a moment before turning back to her. Wobbling, he asked, “Can I go in?”
As much as she’d like to say no, she nodded. “But only for a little while. Emma Sue and the baby are tired.”
Arms out for balance, he started for the house. She’d been here six weeks, and hadn’t seen him in that condition, yet knew he sipped off his bottles of hooch every night. Taking that into consideration, she asked, “You did go summons Dr. Rodgers when I told you, didn’t you?”
He nodded, but then shook his head. “I went to the Jamison place and sent one of their boys to town, ’case you needed me here.”
“When?”
“Right away.”
The Jamison place was only a mile away, so he could have made that trip relatively quickly, giving him plenty of time to get sloshed. Mrs. Jamison would have made sure one of her sons went for the doctor, therefore Bridgette dropped the subject, and turned away from watching Cecil wobble his way to the house.
As she scanned the yard, looking for a place to wait, the flicker of a light had her walking toward the barn. “Leave it to Cecil to leave a lit lantern in the barn,” she muttered. As she approached the one door that creaked against the evening breeze, she added, “At least I don’t need to light one to see to the cow and calf. Heaven knows he wouldn’t have thought of feeding them.”
“You’re right, he didn’t, but I did.”
With one foot lifted midstep, Bridgette found herself wobbling as Garth appeared in the doorway. Drawing a breath, she lowered her foot slowly. Even once it settled upon the dirt, she was still off-kilter. Especially her insides.
“Hello, Bridgette.”
The disdain in his voice made her name sound like a curse. Contempt filled her. “Garth,” she answered, just as dark and snarly. “What are you doing here? Come to shoot the calf.” Sneering, she added, “And the cow?”
He had one arm braced on the frame of the narrow and short doorway, which made him look taller, wider. “No.” He let go of the frame, but planted his hand back against it just as quickly. “Why the hell aren’t you in Wyoming?”
The question or curse didn’t catch her attention as much as the other sound he’d made. It sounded like a muffled hiccup. She stepped close enough to sniff the air. Fury overshadowed everything else. “Are you drunk?”
He straightened his stance, but never let go of the wall. “No.”
“You smell like you are.”
Leaning a bit more toward the wall, he touched the side of his face with his other hand. A hint of compassion rose inside her. There was just enough light to show how swollen his face still was, and how red. In fact, it looked worse now than it had earlier.
“What are you doing here, Bridgette?”
“What are you doing here?” she asked, rather than answer. Injured or not, she couldn’t afford to feel sympathy for him. He’d deserted her. Left her waiting and waiting.
“Driving cows to Dodge,” he said.
“Like you have every year for the past nine,” she snapped.
“Eight.”
Flustered, she brushed past him and walked the length of the small barn. The cow and the calf were in the back pasture. Both seemed content, the cow chewing and the calf nursing. She checked that the gate blocking the doorway was secure, and then finding nothing else to do, spun around.
Garth had turned about, but still leaned against the doorframe. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
“Why
should I have?” She lifted her chin in order to meet his stare. “It was fine for you to have forgotten me, but not for me to have forgotten you?”
He frowned slightly and shook his head. “I hadn’t forgotten you. Why aren’t you in Wyoming?”
“Why do you keep asking that? I’ve never been to Wyoming. Never planned on going to Wyoming.”
Shifting his feet until he leaned against the wall, he folded his arms across his chest. “That’s what Fredrick Fry told me. That you’d been adopted by a doctor near Topeka, and from there you’d moved to Wyoming.”
Shaking her head, mainly to toss aside the thought he might actually have tried to find her, she said, “Fredrick Fry didn’t tell you that. You were already gone by the time I got off the train.”
“I—”
“Stop.” Unnerved by the hope that was trying to work its way into her heart, she held up a hand. “Just stop. There’s no need to lie. No need to pretend.”
“I’m not lying,” he said, “And I’ve never pretended anything in my life.”
“You are right now.” Rather than say he was pretending to care, she said, “You’re pretending to be something you aren’t.” A caring, honest man. A man who cared enough that he had looked for her. She had to blink at the sting in her eyes. That’s who she wanted him to be, not who he was. Who he’d become.
“I’ve never pretended to be something I’m not.”
“Really?”
He pressed a hand to his forehead, and sighed. “Other than sober. I’ve pretended to be sober a couple of times in my life.”
His grin stole her breath. Even with the bottom half of his face covered in whiskers and the other half swollen, she recognized that grin, the twinkle in those dark eyes—one eye anyway. The old Garth, the one she’d been waiting on, was in there, and that made her knees wobble. However, it also reminded her of how long she’d been waiting for him. “How’s that working for you?” she asked. “Pretending to be sober?”
His body gave a little jerk as he muffled a hiccup. “Not so well.” Shaking his head and rubbing his forehead, he said, “My head hurts. What the hell is in those bottles?”
The Cowboy's Orphan Bride Page 6
